


Delusion

by RheatheHadley



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hallucinations, Mental Health Issues, Nightmares, Poor Reid, Prentiss and Reid friendship, Rated T because have you seen this show?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-19 16:19:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2394893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RheatheHadley/pseuds/RheatheHadley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spencer Reid's mental health could be declining. He's not alone though. His team, his family will be there to help him no matter what.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're not crazy. You're not. Right?

Beating, pounding, throbbing; a ticking bomb imbedded in your mind. How long do you have before the explosion? You fidget, your shoe tap, tap, tapping on the tile floor. You’ve been scratching at your arms, trying to get rid of that prickly feeling, the one people get when they’re being watched. Your eyes burn. You haven’t been sleeping. Nightmares flash behind your eyelids like lightening strikes. You want to seek shelter from the storm but how can you when it rages in your mind?

 

You can’t sleep. You can’t think. You can’t eat. Any semblance of the appetite you once had is gone. All you desire is coffee, the rich brown liquid capable of chasing away the nighttime demons. The high amount of caffeine in your system combined with the fact that what little meat you had on your bones is now gone causes your body to shake. It’s only September, but you’ve already traded your sweater vests for the long sleeved sweaters tucked away in the back of your closet.

 

As much as you hate to admit it, you know something’s wrong. You’ve thought about going to see a doctor, but what if they tell you it’s all in your head? You don’t need medication. You’re not crazy. You’re not. Right?


	2. Concern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I didn’t think you’d noticed all of that.”
> 
> “Kid, I don’t know if you remember, but we profile people for a living. Did you really think we hadn’t noticed?”

It’s Thursday. You woke up this morning after a night of restless sleep. Tossing and turning before waking, feeling no better rested than you did when you closed your eyes. The drive to work was slow, and the sun was so bright. Now, you sit in the car with your head in your hands, willing the skull-splitting pain go away.

There’s a sharp knock on the window that causes you to wince in pain. You look up, eyes squinting against the sun, and see Morgan. You roll your window down so you can hear him.

“Are you alright Reid?” He asks.

You nod; the movement is dizzying. “I’m fine. I’ve got a headache, that’s all.”

You can tell by the look on his face that he doesn’t buy it. It’s quite difficult to lie to an experienced profiler. “You look rough kid. Maybe you should head back home. Everyone will understand you taking a sick day.”

You slip your sunglasses back on. They don’t lessen your headache as much as you would like. “It’s just a headache Morgan. Give it an hour and I’ll be spouting intellectual ramblings like usual.” You roll your car window back up, take the keys out of the ignition, and swing the door open. You want to step out of the car, look Morgan in the eye, and tell him your fine but you can’t. As soon as you’re standing upright, the world tilts and you sway dramatically. Your limbs are so heavy, they don’t seem to be cooperating. Morgan’s steady arm around your shoulder is probably the only thing keeping your face from getting up close and personal with the pavement.

“Reid, you are definitely not okay.”

“Just- just take me upstairs.” You’re leaning heavily on him. If he were to let go, there’s no doubt in your mind that you’d fall.

“You really should go home and get some rest.”

“Derek, I’ll be fine. Let me rest on Garcia’s couch for a bit.” He pauses, looking like he wants to argue. “Please?” That did it.

He sighs. “Fine, but only if you promise.”

“I promise. Can you just grab my bag from the passenger seat?”

Keeping his arm around you, Morgan pulls the door open and reaches across the seat for your bag before closing it again. Carefully, he helps you inside the building and up to the office. The fluorescents aren’t any better for your headache that the glaring sunlight. When the elevator doors open, Morgan practically has to carry you across the bullpen. This doesn’t escape Hotch’s notice.

“What’s going on Morgan?” Worry is written all over his face.

“Not sure exactly. Headaches, dizziness, and he’s burning up. It could be a number of things.”

A fever? You didn’t know you had a fever.

“Why is he here? He should be at home, or preferably a hospital.”

“No. I don’t need to go anywhere. I’m fine Hotch, really. I can work.” It’s mumbled but you think you got your point across.

Hotch sighs. “Take him to Garcia’s couch. I’ll be there in a moment.”

Morgan nods and pulls you into Garcia’s tech lair. She’s facing her screens, her fingers flying over the keys, never missing a beat. “Is that you, my lovely hunk of-” She swivels her chair around and her eyes go wide when they fall on you. “Oh my god, Reid! Are you okay?” 

You give a grunt of assurance but she’s still worried.

“He’s gonna get some rest on your couch if that’s alright with you Baby Girl.”

She nods her head jerkily and starts to straighten up her couch, her eyes never leaving you for more than a few seconds. She fluffs the pillow and gestures for Morgan to lay you down. Slowly, he lowers you onto the couch where you proceed to bury your face in the pillow while Penelope covers you up with a very colorful afghan.

“It’s dark in here. It’s nice.” You mumble, mostly to yourself. Someone runs their fingers through your hair. It’s relaxing and you find yourself struggling to stay awake.

“Spencer,” Penelope says, “go to sleep. You’ll feel better.”

You manage a small shake of your head. “I don’t want to sleep. Sleep is bad.”

“What do you mean Spencer?” Garcia asks.

You don’t answer.

Garcia and Morgan are quite for the next two minutes or so before Rossi and Prentiss come in and even then the room stays silent. You can practically feel all of their worrying gazes on you and it’s starting to make you anxious. Thankfully, Hotch walks in before it goes on any longer.

"Morgan, I’d like to speak with you. As for the rest of you, can you please give us a few minutes?” They all nod, somewhat reluctantly, and leave.

Hotch looks at you intently, clearly worried. “Reid, I need to take your temperature. Can I do that?”

You nod slightly, being careful not to make your head start pounding again. Hotch places the thermometer in your ear and turns it on. He waits until it beeps before pulling it back out.

He turns to Morgan. “His fever’s 102.8. What were the other symptoms he had?”

“He had a really bad headache this morning. I found him sitting in his car with his eyes closed tightly. I think it gets worse with bright lights. He couldn’t walk either, like he was dizzy and his limbs were heavy.”

“Is that right Spencer?” Hotch asks you.

You nod. “But I’m fine, I promise.”

“There’s something else Hotch.” Morgan says. “He was fighting off sleep and when Garcia suggested he get some rest, he said he didn’t want to and that sleep was bad.”

Hotch turns back to you. “You don’t want to sleep?”

“No, I don’t really like sleeping anymore.”

“Why not?”

You don’t say anything.

Derek looks at you knowingly. “You having bad nightmares again Pretty Boy?” You look up at him with sadness in your eyes and that’s all the confirmation he needs. “You want to tell us what you dream about?”

You swallow thickly, your throat suddenly really dry. “No, I don’t.” After clearing your throat you look up at Morgan. “Can I get some water and ibuprofen?”

Morgan leaves for a minute before coming back with the items you requested. You swallow the pills and take a drink of water. Your eyelids feel as though they weigh a ton. They flutter but you manage to keep them open.

Hotch notices your struggle. “Reid, I think you’re suffering from exhaustion. You should stop fighting it. It’ll help you feel better.”

Morgan nods his head in agreement. “Go to sleep Pretty Boy.” He says. So you do.

~*~

_It’s pitch black. You might as well be blind for all the good your eyes are doing you right now. The air is stale and cold. You can’t stop shivering. If it wasn’t so dark, you’d probably be able to see your breath. The stench of rust is overwhelming. It causes your stomach to churn. There’s something on your hands. They’re covered in a hot, thick, liquid. Blood. It runs and drips off your hands and onto the floor. There’s so much of it. So much blood._

“Reid. Reid, you need to wake up. You’re safe. You’re in Garcia’s tech room at the BAU. You’re not in your nightmare. Okay? You’re safe.”

The voice is just white noise. All you can think about is the blood. Oh god the blood! Your stomach lurches violently. Bile rises in the back of your throat. A trash bin is placed in front of you and you retch. Not much comes up.

A bottle of water is handed to you and you take a swig of it to clean out your mouth. Realizing that you’re still not sure who’s in the room with you, you look up. Sitting in a chair next to the couch is Emily.

“I’d ask if you’re alright but that seems like a lousy question.” She says with a humorless laugh.

You offer a small hesitant smile and take another drink before passing the bottle back to her.

“You were asleep for about three hours. Your fever broke. You’re still a little warm but you’ll be back to normal in another hour or so.”

You’re not really paying attention to her. Your eyes are fixed to your hands. “I-I need to go wash my hands.” You stutter out.

She’s confused. “There’s nothing on your hands Reid. They’re clean. Why do you need to wash them?”

You know she’s right. Of course your hands are clean. Of course there’s no blood on them. That doesn’t matter though, because you can still feel it. You stand up quickly and this time the dizziness only lasts for a few seconds. “I need to wash my hands.” You repeat.

“Reid, I told you, you’re fine. They’re clean, look.” She reaches for one of your hands but you jerk it back out of her reach.

“No. I need- I need to wash them now. I really need to. I need to wash my hands.”

She’s starting to look a little alarmed but she nods. “Alright, you can wash your hands. It’s no problem.” She stands from her chair and opens the door for you. You hold your hands out in front of you and take extra care to keep them from touching anything. She opens the door to the men’s bathroom for you and you quickly rush inside.

You turn the hot water knob on the sink all the way up and pump a handful of soap into your palm. You scrub and you scrub and you scrub. Minutes later the sink is full of bubbles and your hands are an angry shade of red. Someone places a hand on your arm. It jerks you back into reality. You flinch away from the hand and get water all over yourself in the process.

You look over and Morgan’s got his hands up in surrender. “Calm down Spencer. Emily sent me in here to check on you. She said you were pretty freaked out. You want to talk about it?”

“I just needed to wash my hands.” You walk over to the paper towels, rip off a couple of sheets, and start drying your hands. You wince. It hurts because the skin on your hands are so sensitive.

“Emily said your hands were clean.”

“Well they weren’t.” You throw your paper towels into the trash bin and turn to leave but Derek’s standing in front of the door, his eyes seeking out yours.

“Spencer, we care about you. You don’t need to lie to us.”

You avert your gaze, not finding it in yourself to meet his eyes. “I know that. You guys are my family. It’s just… I’m not really sure what’s wrong with me.” Your voice cracks. You’re close to tears.

Morgan takes few steps closer to you and envelopes you in a hug. It catches you off guard but soon you relax in his embrace. It feels nice to be held for once. “I want to help you, I really do. But I can’t do that if you won’t let me.” He pulls back and looks you in the eye. “Will you let me help you?”

You pause. You’ve never really had anyone around to help you before. It’s always been you helping and taking care of anyone else. You can’t remember a time when someone was taking care of you. Maybe you should let him. It could be nice, not having to fight your battles completely alone. Besides, Morgan’s one hell of a fighter. You could use him on your side.

“Yeah.” You finally say. “I will.”

~*~

You put your key in the lock and turn it until you hear it click and swing the door open. You hit the light switch on your way in and drop your bag by the couch. Morgan enters behind you and surveys the room. The walls are a dark shade of green and the walls are lined with bookshelves. The coffee table and end tables are piled with towering stacks of books as well. There are books in the chairs and on the couch. There are even a few on the countertops in the kitchen. You really wish you’d straightened up sometime in the past week. Usually your books are all neat and organized on the shelves but lately your mind has sort of been in shambles. Reading is your way to distract yourself from what’s happening to you.

Morgan just quirks a smile. “How did I know that there were going to be so many books?”

 You chuckle. “Lucky guess?”

“Yeah,” He says, “that must be it.” Morgan heads into the kitchen and routes through all the cabinets and the fridge, searching for something to eat. “Reid, what have you been eating? The only thing I’ve found so far is coffee.”

You sheepishly look down at your feet. “That’s pretty much all I have here at the present moment. I haven’t gone shopping in a while.”

When you look up, Morgan’s eyes are on you. You see a deep look of concern in them before he masks his expression once more. “No matter. I’ll order us some take out. I’m in the mood for some pizza. Does that sound alright with you?”

You shrug.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts entering a number. “Why don’t you go brush your teeth and change into some comfy clothes? It’ll probably make you feel better.” He presses the call button and puts the phone to his ear before you can answer.

You brush your teeth first, happy to not have your mouth taste like stomach acid anymore. You try not to look in the mirror for as long as possible but eventually your eyes are drawn to the reflective surface. Your hair’s a bit of a mess today but that probably has something to do with the nap you took on Garcia’s couch earlier. That’s not your main concern though. You’re more worried about the dark circles beneath your eyes. Your face is pale and gaunt, something you aren’t proud of. You quickly turn away, not finding it in yourself to look on any longer.

You heed the rest of Morgan’s advice and head to your room to change. Sweatpants and a t-shirt will do nicely. When you reenter the living room, Morgan has situated himself on your couch, his feet propped up, his head tilted back, and his eyes closed. He’d look relaxed if it weren’t the tension you can see in his jaw.

You sit on the other end of the couch and curl up underneath a fleece throw. It’s chilly and goose bumps rise up on your arms. Once you’re situated, Morgan turns on the television and finds a random movie that’s on. Neither of you pay attention. He’s worried about you and you can’t stop your mind from exploring the possibilities of what could be wrong with you. Currently you seem to be suffering from exhaustion and dehydration, seeing that the only thing you’ve had to drink in the last few days is coffee.

You’re close to dozing off when a sharp knock on the door startles you. Morgan goes to answer it and comes back a moment later with two hot pizzas. “Time to eat Pretty Boy.”

Your stomach growls in response to the tantalizing aroma and you don’t hesitate to rise from your position on the couch and follow Morgan into the kitchen. He’s putting several slices onto two separate plates, the sight of the melted cheese making your mouth water. You pull the coffee out of the cabinet and move to turn the coffee maker on but Morgan places a hand on your shoulder. You turn to look at him and he shakes his head.

“Nope. No more coffee. You need to get some water into your system.” You nod, knowing he’s right, and put the coffee back in the cabinet. You pour yourself a glass of water instead and get settled at the table with Morgan. You eat in relative silence. Before two long, Morgan’s working on his fifth piece and you can’t force yourself to finish your second.

“You done?” He asks.

You nod. “I’m full.” You rub your eyes with the backs of your hands and head into the living room. After curling back up under the throw blanket, you grab the remote and change the channel from infomercials to a Doctor Who marathon. Morgan joins you a few minutes later.

The next several hours are nice. Derek asks the occasional question about the show, which you more than happily answer, and you finally get your mind to stop running wild. It’s nearing seven o’clock when Morgan reaches for the remote and mutes the television. You sit up and look over to him. “Is something wrong?”

He sighs. “I think we should talk about it.”

“Talk about what?” You ask, pretending to be oblivious.

“You, Spencer, I think we should talk about you. About your nightmares and the fact that you haven’t been sleeping. About your weight loss and your shaky hands. I’m worried. We all are.”

“I didn’t think you’d noticed all of that.”

“Kid, I don’t know if you remember, but we profile people for a living. Did you really think we hadn’t noticed?”

“No,” you admit, “I guess I didn’t. I guess I was just hoping you hadn’t.” You lick your lips and rub your hands together, nervous in anticipation for what you know is coming next.

“I think we should talk about the dream you keep having. Is it the same one every time?”

You nod, knowing your voice would crack if you spoke.

“Tell me about it.”

“I-I don’t want to.”

“I think it’ll help and I think you think that too. Now, I know you’re scared but listen to me. Close your eyes.”

“Morgan, I really don’t need-”

“Please, Reid, just humor me.” He sounds desperate so you comply and let your eyes fall shut.

“Okay, I want you to think back to the dream you keep having. What do you see?”

“It’s-It’s dark.”

“How dark? Can you see anything at all?”

You shake your head. “Nothing, it’s completely black.” You’re breathing a little faster. “I don’t like the dark.”

“It’s okay Spencer, calm down. You’re here with me, your safe. Do you understand?”

You nod.

“Now, can you tell me what you smell?”

“Rust.”

“Do you know why it smells like rust?”

“Blood, my hands are covered in blood.” You can feel it, the sticky warmth coating your long fingers. Your stomach rolls.

Something must show on your face because a second later, Derek is helping you to your feet. “Come on Pretty Boy, let’s get you to the bathroom.”

You don’t need to be told twice. You race to the bathroom, stumbling over your own two feet in the process, before falling in front of the toilet. As you retch, Derek rubs a soothing hand across your back. “How long have you been having these nightmares?”

“A-About two weeks.” You admit.

“Why didn’t you say anything? Why did you wait until we noticed you were physically ill?”

“I thought they’d stop.” Using the edge of the sink, you pull yourself into a standing position and start brushing your teeth for the third time today.

“What about physical symptoms? How have those been?”

You spit into the sink. “What do you mean?”

“The headaches, the nausea, the weight loss- has all of it been going on for two weeks?”

You nod and continue brushing your teeth. He waits until you’re finished to speak again. “Have you by any chance been to see a doctor lately?”

“I don’t need to see a doctor. I am a doctor.”

“Reid, I know you’re a genius and that you have several doctorates, but we both know that’s not the kind of doctor you need. You need to see a medical doctor.”

You shoulder past him and head to your room. “No, I don’t. I’m fine, really. I just need to get some sleep.”

He follows you in your attempt to avoid him. “Spencer listen-”

“No. I don’t want to listen, I don’t want to see a doctor, and I don’t want to know what to know what’s wrong with me!”

Immediately, something clicks for him. His gaze turns sympathetic. “You’re scared that the doctor will tell you there’s nothing physically wrong with you.” It’s not a question.            

You nod. “I’m not crazy.” You’re aware of how dejected you sound but you can’t help it. “I’m not.”

“Spencer,” he places a caring hand on your shoulder, “I know you’ve spent your whole life living in fear of the chance that you might inherit your mother’s illness, but right now, you aren’t doing so hot. You had a fever, you’ve been throwing up, you’ve been getting migraines. You’re in pain and I think you should at least give the doctor a chance.”

You sigh, arguing with Morgan is like trying to argue with a child. Not that Morgan’s childlike, but that it’s pointless. You can’t win no matter how hard you try. “Can’t I just wait a little bit longer? You guys know now and you can help me if I need you to.” He wants to push the issue, you can tell, but you can also practically see the gears turning in his head.

“Fine. I’ll give you a week from today, but if you start getting a lot worse it’s straight to the doc’s office. Am I clear?”

“Transparent.”

“Good.” He checks his watch. “It’s getting late. Clooney’s been locked up in the house all day. I really need to get back home and let him out before he decided to make a mess.”

Panic flares within you. He’s leaving? No, you don’t want him to leave. You don’t want to be alone. You-

“Spencer, breathe.” You do. “I’m not going to leave you here by yourself. I don’t think that’s in your best interest. I do, however, have to leave. I’ll be back first thing in the morning but I’ll call someone to stay with you for the night. I was thinking Penelope. I know how much she loves to spoil you so I-”

“No.” You interrupt.

He’s extremely confused. “Why don’t you want Baby Girl? I figured she’d be your first choice.”

“I want- I mean, I can’t-  I just don’t-” You sigh, feeling guilty for what you’re about to admit. “She smothers me.” Once the admission slips past your lips, you can’t stop the words from coming. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate her care, I do. She’s just so keen on staying positive that she doesn’t let herself remember that the other is suffering. Her optimism is so overbearing and I just can’t-”

“Reid, stop.” Immediately, you snap your mouth shut. “You don’t have to justify your choices to me. If you don’t want her here, it’s fine with me. I can call whoever you want.”

“Emily?”

“Sure thing Pretty Boy. I’ll be right back.” Morgan dials a number on his phone and exits the room.

You’re cold again so you pull a large, thick sweater out of your closet and pull it on. It’s not enough. You bury yourself under the duvet on your bed. It’s nice, being so close to achieving warmth, but something’s missing. A book. You don’t want a factual book though. No mathematics, no physics, no engineering. You need a novel that tells a story. You want your collection of King Arthur’s Tales. Your mother loved those a lot.

You head out of the room and into the living room, trying to be quiet because Morgan’s on the phone in the kitchen. Your books are scattered everywhere and you start searching. First you scour the shelves, eyes roaming over the titles at a ridiculously fast speed. It’s not there. You search the piles on the end tables and the coffee table. Still, King Arthur’s Tales are nowhere to be found.

You check the bathroom. When you were nauseous on Saturday, you sat in there with some books alternately reading and throwing up. There’s a pile of books on the back of the toilet but none of them are King Arthur’s Tales. You head to your room next. There’s a stack of books on the nightstand but again, none of them is the one you’re looking for. You’re starting to get upset now. All you want is that book. It’ll help. It will. You just have to find it.

You get on your knees and look under the bed. It’s dark but there’s definitely something under there. It looks like it could be a book. You reach your hand out hesitantly at first and then quickly, grabbing for the book as fast as you can. You look at your find. King Arthur’s Tales is grasped tightly in your hand. You crawl back onto the bed and under the blanket, hugging the book to your chest.

You hadn’t noticed it while you were searching for the book, but your head is starting to hurt again. The ache rests behind your forehead and eyes. You squeeze them shut, wishing for the pain to go away. It spreads one nerve ending to the next, like an infectious disease works it’s way from cell to cell, until your whole head feels like it’s going to explode. The clock on the wall ticks, hands spinning round and round the face in dizzying circles. There’s a knock on the door, breaking the rhythm of the mind-numbing sound.

“Reid?” The door opens slowly. It’s Emily. “Morgan just left. Are you alright?”

You give a slight nod. She looks doubtful.

“Are you sure? You’ve been crying.”

You reach a hand up to your face. It’s wet. You didn’t even realize. Emily crosses the room and perches herself on the edge of your bed. “Are you having one of your headaches now?”

You nod again, slowly though, trying to keep the pounding at bay. She gestures to the book you’re hugging to your chest. “What book is that?”

“King Arthur’s Tales. It’s one of my mom’s favorites.”

“We’re you reading it before I got here?”

“No, I didn’t want to.”

“Why not? You’re always reading.”

“Yeah but with this book it’s different. It’s not as good when I read it.” She looks a little confused so you elaborate. “My mom used to read it to me when I was little to help me fall asleep. It just doesn’t have the same effect when I read it.”

She’s silent, watching you with her profiler eyes. As a team, you try not to profile each other but it’s hard to shut it off. You don’t focus on her. Your eyes watch the clock. The second hand is making its 360 degree rotation for the seventeenth time this hour.

“Would you-” Emily clears her throat, “Would you like me to read it to you?” She pauses, you don’t answer. “I know I couldn’t possibly measure up to your mom but still, it might help.” She’s nervous. She wants to help but she doesn’t want to make things worse. Right now, that’s a very fine line to walk.

“I’d like that.” You finally reply. You smile hesitantly and she smiles in return. You hand the book over to her and curl back up under the blanket. When she goes to cross her legs and get comfortable you close your eyes.

Emily’s voice flows like melodic piano tunes. It’s smooth and fluid, like the gliding of a paint filled brush across a canvas. It paints a beautiful picture in your mind. You almost don’t want to speak and disturb the peace that has settled in the room, but you’re slowly drifting off, being lulled to sleep by her voice, and there’s something you need to say.

“Emily?” Your voice is rough from disuse. Somehow Emily’s isn’t, even after reading aloud for the past hour.

She seems a little startled at the interruption, lost in the sound of her voice reading off words she no longer comprehends. “Yeah Spencer?” Her voice is sweet and caring.

“I wanted to thank you for not telling anyone about my headaches. I know you wanted to.”

“I did,” She admits, “but I know how hard trusting someone can be. Trust is a precious gift. I wasn’t going to betray yours.”

You smile and close your eyes. She resumes her storytelling and this time, when sleep takes you by the hand, you don’t fight it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it! Reviews are greatly appreciated!


	3. Nordberg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone else on the team is still talking about the case but you can no longer hear them. You feel like you’re underwater, their voices garbled and distant. You’re floating, drifting, sinking. Deeper and deeper you go until there’s nothing but the darkness of your unconscious mind.

You untangle yourself from your duvet and brush your bedraggled hair out of your face. It’s morning, 8:32 to be exact. Work starts in twenty-eight minutes. Are you supposed to go to work today? Probably not. Hotch most likely would send you back home if you show up. You feel better today though. No waking up with a splitting headache, no nightmare last night. You smell food cooking, that’s definitely something to count towards a good morning. You shuffle into the kitchen where, to your surprise, Emily is at the stove making scrambled eggs.

She looks over her shoulder and smiles at you. “Good morning Spencer. You sleep well?”

You nod.                                                        

“That’s good. Morgan stopped by earlier. He brought over some eggs. He had to leave though. Since he brought you home yesterday he didn’t get any of his paperwork done and Hotch said he had to come in and finish it today. I finished mine though, so I’m all yours today, for as long as you need me.”

“You didn’t have to stay. You could have gone to work.”

“I could have, but hanging out with you is more fun. Why don’t you go jump in the shower really quick? The eggs will be done when you get out.”

You take her up on her advice and take a hot shower. The water is probably too hot but it helps chase away the chill that has settled in your bones, even if only temporarily.

After drying off you dress in dark grey slacks, a white shirt, a lavender tie, and a dark purple cardigan. When you enter the kitchen, Emily raises an eyebrow. “Going somewhere?”

“I’m feeling a lot better today. I thought maybe, after breakfast, we’d go into work?” You weren’t meaning it to, but it comes out sounding like a question.

“If that’s what you want then I don’t see why not. You sure you’re feeling better?”

You nod. “I’m sure.”

She plates the eggs and you sit in compatible silence while eating. After you’re both finished, you wash the plates and set them in the dish drainer before grabbing your messenger bag. Emily grabs her purse and a small bag that she brought a change of clothes in and you’re out the door.

 

~*~

 

Garcia is there as soon as you enter work with the back of her hand pressed against your forehead. You pass her test and are released for work with a hug. Happily, you plant yourself in your desk chair and immerse yourself in your files.

Two hours later, you’re files are done and there is an irritating ache in your back. You rise, feel your back pop in numerous places, and toddle over to the mini kitchen in the back of the office. Coffee sounds nice but you remember what Morgan said yesterday about needing to get more water back into your system. You grab a bottle of water from the fridge instead and take a gulp.

“Reid,” It’s Rossi, “Hotch wants us in the round table room. We’ve got a case.”

You follow him up the stairs and into the room, taking a seat in your usual spot next to Emily.

“Alright my lovely profilers,” Garcia says as she pulls up the crime scene photos, “you’re headed to Nordberg, Minnesota. They’ve had two dead bodies in the past two weeks. The first one, a homeless man, forty to fifty years old with no positive ID yet. The second one, female prostitute Katelyn Mitchell, twenty-seven. Both bodies were found in alleyways. Their wrists had been cut clean open.”

“But no blood at the crime scenes?” Morgan asks.

Garcia nods. “Yep, their wrists were clean.”

“Anything else connecting them?” Hotch asks.

Garcia pushes another button on her remote, bringing up close up images of the bodies. “Their hands were folded neatly on top of their stomachs holding little bundles of flowers.”

“Garcia, can you zoom in on the flowers?” You ask. She does. “Roses.”

“Does that have any significance?” Rossi asks.

“I’m sure it does.” You say. “I’m just not sure exactly what that significance is yet.”

Hotch rises from the table. “We meet on the plane in forty five minutes. Everyone be ready.”

 

~*~

 

Riding with Morgan in the car with the sun beating down on the windows, you can feel another headache coming on. If it gets worse you’ll tell someone, but for now you don’t want to cause worry. Morgan drives to his house first. His go-bag is already packed and waiting by the front door. All he has to do is grab it and take Clooney to the neighbor’s house. He drives to your apartment next. You quickly get together your go-bag. You make sure to pack your glasses and your purple scarf in your messenger bag. If your headache gets worse you don’t want to have to mess with your contacts and, knowing you, you’ll want your scarf before the case is over. It doesn’t take long before you’re back on the road and Morgan is driving to the airport.

 

~*~

 

Garcia’s voice comes crystal clear through the monitor once the plane has taken off and you’re all settled, “So in the last hour I did some more digging and discovered that our unidentified homeless man is fifty-two year old Henry Maynard, a former Illinois college professor. He came to Nordberg five years ago and had been living on the street since then.”

“Any idea why he didn’t find a place to live once he was here?” Emily asks.

“It was a messy divorce and his wife took almost all of his money. He used what he had left to get far away from her and buy food.” Garcia supplies.

“Anything new on our second victim?” Hotch asks.

“Yes, Miss Katelyn Mitchell, also known as ‘Kitty’ to her customers, was a high school runaway. She’s been working the streets ever since she left home.”

Morgan furrows his eyebrows. “What’s the cooling off period for this guy?”

Garcia straightens her bright blue glasses. “Our victims were killed and their bodies found a week apart.”

“Which means, if he’s sticking to that pattern, we’ll be finding another body today.” Rossi says ominously.

During that whole discussion, you’d been paying attention, but not fully. Your budding headache has grown a little and has now settled behind your eyes. You let them slide shut and it helps. It’s like there’s a black curtain separating you from the rest of the world. It’s nice. You sink down into the couch. Everyone else on the team is still talking about the case but you can no longer hear them. You feel like you’re underwater, their voices garbled and distant. You’re floating, drifting, sinking. Deeper and deeper you go until there’s nothing but the darkness of your unconscious mind.

 

_The black and the cold and the rust, it’s all back. There’s something new though. Footsteps, boots scuffing against concrete. You curl in on yourself. A feather light touch to your arm has you flinching back in fear. The person persists; their gentle hand brushes your hair away from your face. “Spencer?” It’s Emily. “You’re safe Spencer. The whole team is here with you. You are in no danger, alright? I need you to wake up for me and see for yourself. I need you to wake up.”_

You blink your eyes open slowly. It’s bright, not dark like it was in your dream. Emily is perched on the edge of the couch, her hand brushing your hair off to the side in a soothing manor.

“Hey, you’re back.” Emily smiles.

Your hands are shaking. You squeeze them into fists to get them to stop but they don’t. Emily takes one of them in one of hers. It helps. The rest of the team is seated throughout the plane trying to pretend they aren’t watching you with worried glances.

“What happened?” You ask.

“Well,” she says, “you fell asleep and we decided to let you rest. But twenty minutes later you started tossing and turning. I’ve been trying to wake you up for five minutes.”

You sit up and rub the remnants of sleep from your eyes before looking at the rest of the team.

“They’re worried about you.” She says.

“You didn’t tell them about the-?”

“No, I didn’t tell them that you’ve been having headaches for over a month now. They still think it’s just been two weeks. They’re just not sure you should have come to work after being sick yesterday. They think you could’ve used another day to rest.”

“I’m fine.”

“I think we both know that’s not true.”

“Really, I’m fine. And I don’t need everyone worrying about me all of the time. I’m old enough to take care of myself.” You know your voice is carrying a trace of anger but you can’t find it in yourself to care.

Emily squeezes your hand. You’d forgotten she was holding it. “Spencer, we worry because we care. Just remember that.” Then she lets go and returns to her seat. For the rest of the flight no one bothers you. You tell yourself that that’s a good thing, but there’s a little voice in the back of your mind that says you’d feel a lot better if Emily was sitting by you again.

 

~*~

 

True to the pattern, there is another body waiting when the team arrives. A man left in an abandoned building with roses and his wrists slit but no blood. Officer Austin Sheffield takes Morgan to the first crime scene, Deputy Leon Greene takes Rossi and Prentiss to the second crime scene, and Sheriff Madison Wyman takes you and Hotch to the most recent crime scene.

The body is lying on its back. His dead eyes stare up at the ceiling. His hands are folded across his stomach, a bouquet of roses placed in his grasp, just like with the other two victims. The only difference with this victim is that there is something circling his body. You step closer to get a better look. A ring of ashes?

“The ashes are new.” You point out.

Hotch nods in agreement.

Sheriff Wyman looks down at the body and her eyes widen when a look of recognition passes over her features. “Oh my god.” She says.

“You know this man?” Hotch asks.

“Yeah, everyone knows Jeff Fowler. My mother always told me to never speak ill of the dead, but Jeff was a real jackass.”

“In what way?” You ask.

“He drank all the time. Never sober a day in his life. It was a known fact that he beat his wife, but we could never prove it. Neighbors would say they heard fighting, but whenever we asked Mrs. Fowler about it she’d deny it, say she got her injuries by tripping or something.”

“We’ll need to talk to her soon. Will she cooperate?” Hotch asks.

“As much as she can. Claire is a sweetheart but years of living with Jeff have changed her. She won’t be violent or anything, but she might need a little help if you’re to get her talking.” Sheriff Wyman clarifies.

Hotch nods and the two of you begin to survey the scene. The murder was obviously not committed here, the lack of blood tells you that, so this is just a dump site. The bodies of the first two victims were found outside. This victim breaks the pattern. The body has been left indoors.

You turn to the Sheriff. “What is this building used for?”

“It’s abandoned actually, an old hat factory that closed up many years ago.” She supplies.

“So people don’t usually come in here?” You ask.

“Well, a lot of teenagers come here as sort of a hang out. The factory closed because of a fire though, so the structure’s not the safest anymore. We have officers sweep the building every Friday and Saturday night to keep the kids out.”

“Who found the body?” Hotch asks.

“It was a young couple looking to have a good time.” Sheriff Wyman says.

You and Hotch nod in understanding.

You watch the crime scene guys bag the roses and gather samples of the ash. They’re extremely important and could possibly point to the reason the Unsub is performing the murders. All you have to do is figure out what they mean.

 

~*~

 

A steady stream of sugar rains into your coffee as you stir it thoroughly. You know that you should be drinking water, but you’re on a case and you need coffee. Everyone is seated around the table in the evidence room staring up at the victims’ pictures on the evidence board when you enter. No one looks at you when you take a seat.

“So, with this third victim, things have changed?” Morgan asks.

Hotch nods. “Yes. His body was discovered indoors and with a ring of ashes around it. Did we discover anything new at the first two crime scenes?”

“Well, the alley Katelyn Mitchell’s body was dumped in was by the shopping mall. A lot of kids cut through there on a regular basis as a short cut. It was a couple of kids that found her.” Rossi says.

Morgan leans back in his chair. “Henry Maynard’s body was found in an alleyway right by the elementary school. One of the janitors was putting trash in a dumpster when they found him.”

“Oh.” All eyes are suddenly on you. “The bodies were all found a week apart on Fridays, yes? Well, I’d hazard a guess that every Friday the janitor gets all of the trash out of the school before the weekend hits. And, every Friday the mall is a popular hangout for teenagers who would be using the shortcut. The third crime scene didn’t break the pattern by being inside; it stuck to the pattern by being in a place that the police do a routine sweep of every week. If the kids hadn’t found the body, the police definitely would have. The killer must have known the exact circumstances of the dump sites in order to have the bodies found exactly when they wanted them to be found.”

Morgan’s eyes light up in understanding. “Which also means the killer is almost definitely someone who has been living in town for a while.”

“Exactly.” You say. “But we still have the ashes to deal with.”

“We’ll deal with that later.” Hotch says. “For now, I want Morgan and Rossi to look over the medical examiners report. I’m going to call Garcia and have her start combing through the lives of our victims and see if she can find any overlap between them.” Then he turns to you and Prentiss. “I need the two of you to go talk to Claire Fowler. See if you find out anything new or useful from her.”

You understand why Hotch chose you and Emily to talk to Mrs. Fowler. Prentiss is a woman; you are approachable and not intimidating. She will need people who won’t remind her of her husband and the two of you will have the best chance of getting her to talk. Still, you wish Hotch could send someone else or maybe just go himself instead. A dull pain is beginning to radiate from behind your eyes. Before too long it will get worse. The pressure will beat on the inside of skull, bright lights will cause blinding pain, with every heart beat the throbbing will intensify and the pain will increase. Your current headache is getting worse just thinking about what is to come.

You ignore it though, because you must. Everyone is already worried about you and you don’t want to give them another cause for concern. So you force a smile and sling your messenger bag over your shoulder, you have a wife to talk to.

 

~*~

 

Prentiss clears her throat. “Mrs. Fowler-”

“Please, call me Claire.” She interrupts.

“Alright Claire, how long had Jeff been missing?”

“He hadn’t been home since Tuesday.”

“Why didn’t you report him missing?” Prentiss asks.           

“It wasn’t unusual for him to disappear for a couple of days to have a good time with his friends. He was entitled to a social life.”

Prentiss folds her hands in her lap. “Had your husband been acting strange lately?”

“Strange?” She fidgets with her skirt.

“Any different than normal?” Prentiss clarifies.

“No, he was as normal as ever.” Claire absentmindedly rubs at the finger shaped bruises around her right wrist.

You sit beside Prentiss, letting her lead the questioning while you survey the living room. Nothing is out of place. The remote controls for the television are lined up on the coffee table. All of the picture frames on the walls are evenly spaced apart. The couch pillows are fluffed to perfection. Every surface is pristine, not a speck of dust in sight. The air holds the distinct smell of lemon-scented household cleaners.

Prentiss continues. “Did Jeff have any enemies?”

“Jeff was very well liked. His friends always came over to watch the football games.” She paused for a moment as if debating whether or not she should say something before continuing. “He said his boss was out to get him, but I don’t think he was serious. He’d just been working later than normal and he wasn’t happy about it.”

“What about you?” You interrupt. “How was your relationship with your husband?”

“I loved Jeff.” Claire seemed shocked the question was even being asked.

“Did he ever hurt you?” Emily asks. You both know the answer, but you’re curious as to what she will say.

There was a pause. “Jeff… disciplined me when necessary. I made mistakes. He deserved better.”           

You smile at her sadly. The bastard might be gone, but his life will forever leave a negative impact on the woman before you.

Emily thanks Claire for her time and the two of you head outside to the SUV. The sun feels like knives to your retinas. The intensity of your headache increases and you rub at your eyes to dispel some of the moisture collecting there.

“Reid, are you alright?” Emily asks.

“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just a bit bright out here.” You slide into the passenger side of the vehicle while Emily climbs into the driver’s side.

“You don’t look fine. If your head is starting to hurt, maybe you should go to the hotel and get some rest before it gets any worse.” She reaches out her hand and lays it on your arm.

“No, I can work. I’m fine.”

“I don’t want you to push yourself to hard. You shouldn’t cut corners when it comes to your health. I think you should get some rest.”

You run your hands through your hair in frustration. She doesn’t understand. Sleep might give your body some respite, but it gives the nightmares the opportunity to lurk out of the depths of your mind and torment you in your unconscious state. “W-We’ll go back to the station and I’ll take it easy. I’ll even drink water instead of coffee. I promise.” Your large hazel eyes plead with her until she sighs in defeat.

“Fine, but I’m telling Hotch what’s been going on.”

“You can’t tell Hotch; he’ll pull me off the case!” You protest.

“He won’t.” She insists.

“He will and he’ll assign one of you to babysit me and make sure I’m resting which is completely unnecessary. Isn’t it enough that you know?”

“If I don’t tell Hotch he’ll keep sending you off to crime scenes, and I think it would be better for you if you just worked from the station.”

You kind of feel like crying. “I just… I am still capable of doing my job. Just because my head hurts doesn’t mean I’m useless. I can still work.” You stare down at your hands resting in your lap. The BAU is where you fit in, it’s where you belong. You’re not a part of a team; you’re a part of a family. If you were not allowed to go to work, not allowed to be with your family, it would be awful.

“Spencer, look at me.” Emily says gently. You do. “I’m not exactly sure what’s going on with you right now, but I do know something. No matter what it is, we will not abandon you. We’re with you all the way. Okay?”

You manage a smile and nod. “Thank you Emily.”

“It’s my pleasure.” She turns the keys in the ignition and the engine rumbles to life.

 

~*~

 

Prentiss leans foreword in the chair, her elbows resting on the table. “Claire Fowler said her husband had been completely normal, nothing out of the ordinary. Did you guys learn anything from the ME reports?”

Morgan flips open on of the many files on the table. “None of the cuts on the wrists held hesitation marks. Whoever did this is on a mission.”

“There were also ligature marks on the wrists and ankles of all the victims and traces of rust under all of their fingernails.” Rossi adds.

Tied down then… to a table maybe? A rusty table? The shrill ringing of the phone in the center of the table breaks you out of your musings. Morgan presses the button for speaker phone.

“Hey Babygirl, tell me you got something good.”

“Oh I have a lot of good somethings.” She says suggestively. A small smile spreads over your face because of her. “Just none that pertain to the case. There is absolutely nothing they have in common except that they were all living in Nordberg.”

“Victimology is all over the place. What the hell is this guy doing?” Morgan says in frustration.

You’re asking yourself the very same question. The answer has to be in the roses and the ashes.

Hotch sighs. “I’m not sure but I’m calling it a night. It’s been a long day and we could all do with some sleep.”

At the word sleep you can practically feel your heart seize in your chest. Yet you feel a sense of longing as well. Not for the terror filled sleep you have now, but for the peaceful dreamless sleep you can hardly remember from ages ago. You miss the days when you could wake up to find the dark circles under your eyes had lessened and the heaviness that had settled in your head had lifted.

Prentiss steps over to Hotch and asks to talk to him privately for a moment. Everyone else is too busy gathering up their things to notice.

“Hey kid,” Morgan says once he’s finished collecting his stuff, “do you want a ride back to the hotel?”

“Nah, I’ll catch a ride with Emily.”

“Alright, see you tomorrow.” Then he’s gone.

You sit at the table by yourself for twelve minutes and twenty-three seconds before Hotch and Emily return.

“Reid,” Hotch says. You rise from your seat and anxiously wrap your hands around the strap of you bag. “I have made my decision with the team’s best interest in mind and it is because of that that I am not pulling you off this case, although I want you taking it easy. That being said, if your work starts to be affected you’ll be taking some time off until you get everything sorted out. Is that clear?”

“Completely.” You can’t fight off the smile that has taken up residence on your face. You don’t have to stop working! That’s the best news you’ve gotten in quite a while. You turn to head for the door but knock right into someone, causing them to drop their keys and you to drop your files.

“Sorry about that.” It’s Officer Sheffield, the one who escorted Morgan to the first crime scene. He bends down to grab the dropped items. He hands you back your files.

“No, it was my fault. I should have watched where I was going.”

“It’s not a problem.” He smiles. “You probably just as anxious to get some sleep as I am. Have a good night Dr. Reid.”

 

                                                                                                    ~*~

 

You slide you card into the slot and listen as the lock on the door pops free. Emily does the same to the door of the room next to yours.

“Don’t hesitate to wake me up if you need to. We’re in this together. Remember that.” She says.

“I will.” You push the door of your room open and pull it shut behind you. There’s one large window on the wall opposite the door and the door to the bathroom is on your right hand side. There’s a small table by the window and you set your things down on it. First you change out of your current clothing and into ones more comfortable and suitable for sleeping. Then it’s to the bathroom where you take out your contacts and brush your teeth. From there you stumble out of the bathroom and fall onto the mattress. You barely make it under the blankets before unconsciousness claims you.


	4. Drowning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He looks at you through the window and you look at him and though he’s not drowning you, you still can’t breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you wondering where JJ is, in my mind she is away on some secret mission. (Like the kind we learn about in 200.) I'm can't decide whether I'll be bringing her into the story later or not. I'll have to see where it goes.

_You’re submerged. You’re completely underwater. The chill of the water bites at your skin like a gust of arctic air. Hands are fisted in your shirt, holding you under, denying you the air you so desperately need. The edges of your vision are dark and everything is blurry, but you can just make out the face of the man holding you down. His salt and pepper hair is scraggly and greasy. The lower part of his face is covered in scruff. His eyes are angry and he pushes you father into the water._

_You thrash around, kick your legs and flail your arms in an attempt to get him off you, but it’s no use. He’s stronger than you and you’re running out of air. Your lungs scream for it. They burn like a fire raging out of control inside your chest. You try to hold your breath, but eventually your need for air overrides the logical part of your brain that tells you to keep your mouth shut. You inhale. The frigid water burns your throat and feeds the fire in your lungs. Then there’s nothing but darkness._

~*~

The whole team is here in your room. How did they get in here? Emily is sitting in front of you. Her mouth moves and you hear her voice but you can’t comprehend the words. Hotch comes over from the edge of the room and sits directly in front of you. He takes your wrist firmly in his grasp.

“Reid, listen to me.” He commands. “You need to breathe. In and out. Breathe with me. In, out, in, out…”

It’s difficult but eventually, together, you get your breathing under control.

“Are you alright Reid?” Hotch asks.

You nod, but everyone knows it’s not sincere. Though you’re no longer hyperventilating, you still shake. Fisting your hands in the blanket, you try to get them to stop shaking, but you’re unsuccessful.

“Thanks for waking me up you guys. You can go back to bed now.”

Morgan looks like he’s going to argue that he should stay. Hotch places a hand on his arm and a silent exchange takes place before they exit the room together. Rossi gives you a nod and a little salute before heading back to his room. Prentiss walks over to the door but instead of following everyone out into the hall, she pushes the door shut.

“You’re not going to bed?” You ask.

She shrugs. “I thought you might like the company.” She comes to sit by you on the bed and, like she did on the plane, takes your shaking hands in hers. “You had another nightmare.”

It’s not a question but you nod anyway.

“Do you want to talk about it?” She asks.

“Not yet.” Instead, you free one of your hands from hers and reach for the case file resting on the bedside table.

“Are you sure you want to work on the case right now?”

“I need a distraction.” You wince. “That didn’t come out right. I wasn’t trying to be-”

“I know.” Emily interrupts. “You don’t have to explain yourself.” She moves over until her body is parallel with yours so she can see the case file as well.

You pull the crime scene photos from the file and lay them across both of your laps. The ones of the third crime scene stand out for obvious reasons. You’ve already figured out why the body was placed inside as opposed to outside, but you still haven’t figured out the circle of ashes. Why now? Why this victim? You look over at the photos from the first two crime scenes. Still, nothing comes to you.

Pausing, you take a deep breath and a mental step backwards. Victimology is all over the place. You still haven’t been able to determine how he chooses his victims. Henry and Katelyn point to easy access, but Jeff had a wife. There is no consistency or pattern in the ages of the victims. There are male and female victims, so the crimes aren’t gender specific. It seems the only thing they have in common is race, but the crimes don’t fit normal racial hate crimes. The Unsub wouldn’t have targeted Henry and Katelyn, but more well-known people in the community instead.

You rub you temples to fight off a growing headache.

“Are you alright Reid?” Emily asks.

“Yeah, just frustrated.” You say. “I can’t figure out the ashes.”

“Do you want to talk it out?” She offers. “It might help.”

What could it hurt? “I can’t piece together any sort of victimology so all I have to work with are the crime scenes.”

“Then let’s start there. What do the have in common?”

You sigh. “All of the victims were found with their hands folded over their stomachs, positioned to look like they were holding the roses they had been found with. Their wrists were slit, but there was no blood at any of the crime scenes.”

“Okay. Now, how do they differ?” She asks.

“The first two victims were found outside, without ashes. The third victim was found inside, with ashes.”

“We’ve already figured out why Jeff Fowler’s body was left inside.” She points out.

“I know.” You say. “The Unsub had reasons for doing that. He doesn’t seem to have any reasons for suddenly bringing ashes into the mix.”

“Spencer, he’s going around killing people. I think it’s safe to say he’s not operating reasonably.”

By the sound of her voice, she’s trying to joke a little to diffuse some of your building stress, but it’s not working. Your headache has escalated. You tug a little on the piece of your hair that has fallen into your face.

“Even crazy people have reasons for doing things. They don’t just suddenly cha-” You pause.

Emily looks worried. “Are you alright?”

“That’s it!” You exclaim, ignoring her expression of concern. “He wouldn’t have suddenly changed without reason.”

She’s confused. “You just said he didn’t have reason.”

“Exactly! He didn’t change suddenly. He didn’t change as all.”

“So you’re saying the ashes were present at all three crime scenes?”

You nod.

“Then why didn’t we find any?”

“Because along with the ashes at the third crime scene, it was indoors. The first two crime scenes weren’t. If we looked up the weather on the days the bodies were found, I’d say they were probably considerably windy.”

“Which would have blown away the ashes.” Emily smiles wide. “You’ve figured out the mystery of the ash circle. Congratulations.”

You smile in return and begin shuffling the crime scene photos back into the file. Then, you place it back on the bedside table. When you look back at Emily, her smile has faded.

“It’s late. We should get some sleep.”

You nod and bury your aching head into the pillow. You expect to hear a rustling, followed by the squeak of the door being pulled open, and the click of it being pulled shut. Though the rustling does happen, it’s not because Emily’s getting up to leave. Instead, she shifts position to get more comfortable.

As your eyes fall shut, a small smile graces your lips. Emily is a great friend and you can’t understand what you did to disserve her friendship.

~*~

Emily has to wake you two more times before the sun rises. Each time, you dream you’re drowning.

~*~

You wake to the shrill ringing of your alarm and an empty bed. Emily must have already gone back to her room to get ready for the day. As you get up, you take note of the pounding in your head and decide you should probably wear your glasses instead of your contacts today. When you’re in the bathroom trying to get your hair to look less mad-scientist like, you once again are forced to confront how awful you look. The bags under your eyes are worse. You’re still ridiculously thin. After leaving the bathroom in frustration, you finish getting ready, and rush down to the lobby where the rest of the team is undoubtedly waiting.

~*~

“Reid.”

You stop fiddling with the end of your scarf and look up at Hotch.

“Emily said you made a discovery regarding the case?”

“Oh.” You sit up straighter. “The ashes were present at all three crime scenes.” “You’re sure?” Rossi asks.

You nod. “You can check the weather reports for sold evidence, but I’m sure. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“Great. We still don’t know why he’s killing.” Morgan huffs in frustration.

“Let’s revisit victimology.” Hotch says.

Morgan frowns. “What victimology? Garcia found nothing that links them. The only thing they had in common was their residence here.”

“You’re suggesting victims of opportunity?” Emily asks.

“They can’t be. We already determined that the kills are mission oriented.” Rossi points out. “The Unsub has to have a reason.”

There’s a knock on the door. Everyone looks up as Sheriff Wyman steps in. “We just got a missing person’s call.” She says. “I know it doesn’t fit the killer’s time frame, but I figured we can’t be too cautious.”

“You are right to be concerned.” Hotch says. “Now that the FBI is in town, it’s likely he’ll break pattern and try to kill as many people as he can before we catch him.”

“Who’s missing?” Emily asks.

“Randy Hayes.” She says. “Apparently he didn’t come home yesterday, but his family decided to wait ‘till now to make the call, thinking he would have come home. I’ve arranged for you to speak with them within the hour.” Then, she leaves, closing the door behind her.

Morgan reaches over to the phone in the middle of the table and punches in Garcia’s number. It only rings once.

“I was beginning to think you all had forgotten about me.” She says.

“Forget about you? Never.” Morgan breathes.

You can practically hear the grin spreading across her face. “What was it you need?”

“We need you to do a search for Randy Hayes.” Rossi says.

You can hear the keys clacking away from her end of the line. “Randy Hayes: African American, age nineteen, college drop-out. He recently moved back in with his parents and is currently unemployed.”

“Well, that completely eliminates racial motivation.” Emily says.

“Oh,” Garcia says sadly, “please don’t tell me he was killed. He has a little sister.” A picture of the two of them pops up on Hotch’s computer which lay open at the end of the table.

“He’s just missing for now. Let’s hope we can catch our Unsub before the situation gets worse.” Hotch says. “Rossi, I’d like for you to come with me and talk to his parents. Prentiss, I’d like for you to talk with his sister.”

She nods, but you can feel her worrying gaze on the side of your face. You push your glasses up a bit, turn to the crime scene photos, and ignore it.

“Reid and Morgan, I’d like for you to keep working the roses and ashes. Now that we know they were present at all the crime scenes, it could lead us to motive.”

The two of you nod and get to work while the rest of the team exits the room. The case files are opened and the crime scene photos are spread across the table. You know the roses and ashes were present at all three crime scenes so they’re a message. They’re telling you what ties all the victims together. You just have to decipher it.

Your thoughts start whirling. A circle. A circle of ashes around the body. But what if it’s not around the body, but the roses? A circle of ashes around roses? No. Not a circle, a ring. A ring of ashes around the roses. Ring around the rosy?

“What is it?” Morgan asks.

“I found something that fits, but it’s extremely odd.”

“And that would be?”

You frown at one of the crime scene photos. “Ring around the rosy.”

“The kids’ song?”

You nod.

He’s confused. “How does that relate back to the case?”

“I’m not sure. I do know that the origins of the song actually tie back to the black plague. At the end of the song, when the children fall down, they’re actually singing about people falling dead.”

“Well that’s a bit morbid.” Morgan mutters under his breath.

You ignore his comment. “I don’t know why it pertains to the case though. None of our victims were sick.”

Morgan sits up a little straighter. “No, they weren’t. But what if he thought they were infecting others?”

“Like they were the plague?” You ask.

He nods. “Exactly like that. All three of our victims could have been considered a plague to society or the people they are around: a homeless man, a prostitute, and an abusive alcoholic husband.”

“What about Randy Hayes? If he is the fourth victim, how would he fit?”

“Sheriff Wyman said he just moved home after dropping out of college. Our Unsub would probably see Randy as a plague to his parents, living off of their income.”

“That makes sense. You should call Hotch. Tell him we’re ready to give the profile as soon as they come back.” You say.

There’s a knock on the door and Officer Austin Sheffield walks in. “Any progress on the case?”

“We’ve discovered motive. We’ll be giving the profile as soon as the other agents get back.” You say.

“That’s great.” Officer Sheffield says.

Morgan ends his call from the other side of the room and turns to you. “They’re already on their way back. They’ll be here in about ten minutes.”

You nod and watch as Sheffield walks over to the evidence board and regards it with interest.

“Damn.” He mutters in amazement. “It’s amazing the way you can get into people’s heads, the way you figure everyone out. You guys are famous for all the people you’ve caught.”

“Sadly we don’t always get our guy.” Morgan says. “There are some who get away.”

“You kinda have to give them their props for evading you guys. I’d image it’s pretty hard to do.” He says.

You frown and open your mouth to refute that statement but Sheffield holds his hands up in defense. “I wasn’t trying to offend you. It was meant to be a compliment. You guys are damn good at what you do.” He turns back to the board.

You lean back in your chair and take a drink of your water. You decided to give yourself a break from all the coffee. There’s a headache growing in the back of your skull but for now, you ignore it.

The three of you reside in the room in comfortable silence. Morgan looks over the crime scene photos again, Sheffield looks at the evidence board, and you try not to focus on the growing ache in your head.

After a few minutes, Morgan glances out the window. “They’re back.”

You look over, but your eyes aren’t drawn to the SUV that just pulled up. They go to the man across the street.

“No.” It comes out as a hoarse whisper.

It’s him, but it can’t be him. The same scraggly and greasy salt and pepper hair. The same scruff on the lower half of his face. His eyes aren’t angry this time. No, they’re disappointed. He looks at you through the window and you look at him and though he’s not drowning you, you still can’t breathe. You fingers and toes tingle like the blood in your body is no longer present there and instead gathers in your chest and it hurts. You’re shaking, but so is the room around you. It tilts and sways on its axis. No matter how much everything moves, his eyes stay locked on yours until the lack of air becomes too much and the black at the edges of your vision become all there is.

 

~*~

 

You wake with a start, the feeling of hands fisted in your shirt suddenly too real. When you open your eyes, the bright white ceiling is the first thing you see. The hard floor is cold where you lay on it and someone’s jacket has been folded up and placed under your head as a makeshift pillow. Rossi sits on the floor to your left, scrolling through something on his tablet. It takes a moment before you remember why you’re currently taking a nap on the floor and when you do, a shuddering breath escapes your lips.

Rossi looks over at you and sets his tablet down. “You look rough, kid.”

“I feel it.” You say, struggling to sit up. Rossi grabs your shoulder and helps you.

“What happened?” He asks.

You don’t answer. You can't answer. What would you say? You were hallucinating? Yeah, that would really end well.

“Don’t think we haven’t noticed what’s been going on with you lately. You haven’t been eating, you probably haven’t been sleeping. I know you’ve been having headaches.” He sighs. “You’re stressed kid. I know what we do is important, but so is your health. Now, I know you’re presence is important to this case, but-”

“I’m staying on the case. It’s already been discussed with Hotch.” You say.

He shakes his head. “I’m not suggesting you get taken off the case. We need you here if we’re going to solve this one. I’m suggesting that after this case is over, you take a week and recuperate. It might be just what you need.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all I ask for.”

It isn’t until then that you wonder where the rest of the team went. “Where is everyone?” You ask.

“They’re giving the profile. I told them that you wouldn’t want them hovering when you woke up. Don’t worry, Morgan informed them of your connection on how the Unsub is choosing his victims. We’re one step closer to catching this son of a bitch.”

At least there’s some good news. Your head is starting to hurt again and by the look on Rossi’s face, he can tell.

“You want some Tylenol kid?” He asks.

You nod. “There’s some in my bag.”

He rises from his position on the floor and walks to the table where your bag rests. He returns a moment later with the pills and a bottle of water. You swallow them down.

“You talked with Randy’s family?”

He nods. “Turns out, Randy had left college because he was going to join the army. His parents were proud of him, not burdened by him. The Unsub had it wrong.”      

The door opens and the team pours back in. Morgan looks relieved, Emily still looks worried, but it’s Hotch that actually speaks.

“Are you feeling well enough to keep working?”

You nod and that’s all there is to it. Emily looks like she has a couple of things she wants to say to you, but she’ll have to wait. You have a case that needs solving.

 

~*~

 

The team tosses ideas back and forth and considers several possibilities regarding the case until several hours after the shift change. The entire time you’ve successfully avoided having any alone time with Emily, but you know that eventually the two of you will have to talk. The whole team is getting ready to go get something to eat when Sheriff Wyman enters the room.

“I know you all are hungry, but we got a call. A couple of guys just found a body off an isolated road at the edge of town.”

“You think it’s Randy?” Hotch asks.

She nods. “We should head out and take a look at the scene. If it is him, I’d like to notify his family as soon as possible.”

You all nod in understanding and follow her out before piling into one of the SUVs and taking off. The ride is quiet. No one wants to think about the body you’re heading to see. Emily is picking at her nails in the seat next to you. You reach out and grab one of her hands to get her to stop. She flashes you a greatful smile.

When the team arrives at the scene, you all pile out. On the side of the road, there is a body, but it’s not on display like the others were. It’s been wrapped in a sheet. Morgan steps forward and lifts the sheet a little. He drops it. His face is forlorn.

“It’s Randy.” He says. “He’s been beaten though. The Unsub probably realized that he made a mistake in taking him and beat him as a way of letting out his frustration.”

“Wrapping the body shows remorse.” Prentiss says.

“But now he’s going to be desperate to correct his mistake.” Rossi says. “He’s going to need to kill someone else, someone that will validate his mission.”

“Do we have any idea how he’s taking his victims?” Hotch asks.

You clear your throat. “Well, there was no evidence of a physical struggle, even though it probably would have been easy to over power Henry Maynard and Katelyn Mitchell. Jeff Fowler, however, would not have been so easy to subdue. He’s most likely using a drug. There were no drugs discovered in their system, but since he held them for so long the drugs would have had a chance to clear their system before their bodies were found. We should make sure a toxicology screen is done and have the results sent to us as soon as possible.”

The sun glares off one of the cop cars parked in the street. It catches your eyes and makes you wince. No one says anything, but they all glance at you out of the corner of their eyes.

Hotch sighs. “Alright, here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to go with Sheriff Wyman and inform the Hayes of their loss. JJ and Morgan, I want you two to head back to the station and issue a press conference. Tell people to be cautious and be sure to let them know the Unsub made a mistake. As for the rest of you, head back to get some food and rest. We’ll be joining you shortly. If any of you make new breaks in the case, let everyone know.”

 

~*~

 

You, Emily, and Rossi decide to stop at a little diner about a block away from the hotel. After a quick scan of the menu, you decide on soup. It seems that will be the best thing for a stomach that’s been a little neglected as of late. The waitress that takes your order is an older woman who winks at Rossi numerous times but he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too busy going over case details with Emily.

“Do you think it’s a good idea for them to point out the Unsub’s mistake during the press conference?” He asks.

Emily shrugs. “I don’t know. I think it’ll make him angrier.”

“Which will make him more dangerous.” Rossi points out.

“And make him more careless.” She says. “It has its risks, but I think Hotch understands that. That’s why he’s having JJ and Morgan warn everyone to be extra careful. It’s a gamble, but a necessary one.”

Your orders arrive faster than anyone else’s. The waitress passes Rossi another wink and leaves her phone number scratched out across one of the napkins.

Emily laughs. “You think she’ll be the fourth Mrs. Rossi?”

“Not in a million years.” He retorts.

The table falls quiet. Hunger overrules conversation and all that can be heard is the scraping of silverware against ceramic dishes. You manage to finish most of your soup before your stomach starts to protest. Emily and Rossi take their time finishing their food. There’s a part of you that wishes they would hurry up. Someone is sitting in the corner of the diner. They’re holding a menu up, so you can't see their face, but that salt and pepper hair is enough to make your skin crawl. At least this time he isn’t looking at you. Still, the end of the meal can't come soon enough.

 

~*~

 

Back at the hotel, you head into your room and get ready for bed. Glasses off, pajamas on. You’re getting ready to crawl into bed when there’s a light knock on the door. It’s Emily. She’s here because she knows you need it. You’re greatful, and even if you can't bring yourself to say it, your eyes are alight with your thanks. She can see it and she smiles in return.

“Do you want to talk about what happened earlier?” She asks.

You shake your head. “Not now.”

She nods in understanding. No more words are exchanged after that. You both get comfortable on the bed, laying side-by-side, and fall asleep listening to the other’s steady breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, reviews are greatly appreciated. :)


	5. Victim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A crack in the ceiling in the far corner of the room catches your attention. It reaches towards the center of the room like lightning stretches across the sky. You feel like you’re in the eye of a storm, waiting for the calm to pass and the chaos to wreak havoc.

_You’re sitting on a metal chair. You press back against it and the cold metal bites at you through your thin shirt. Standing in front of you is the man with the salt and pepper hair. His eyes are blank this time, devoid of all emotion. Not angry or disappointed like before, but completely unfeeling. He stares directly in your eyes as he presses the muzzle of the gun to your forehead. He cocks it and pushes a little harder, no doubt leaving an indentation on your skin. It’s the way he looks at you, like he doesn’t care whether you live or die, like you mean absolutely nothing, like you_ are _nothing. It hurts worse than the anger or disappoint ever could. He applies a little pressure to the trigger and you force yourself not to break eye contact. He squeezes a little harder – BANG!_

~*~

 

Your eyes fly open, but you can't make a sound. You can't move. Fear paralyzes your body. The gunshot still rings clearly in your mind. Tears leak out of the corners of your eyes and drip down onto your pillow. Slowly, the stiffness leaves your joints and you’re able to sit up. You look over and find that Emily’s still sleeping soundly.

Carefully, as to not wake her, you climb out of bed, grab your glasses off the bedside table, put on your shoes, and slip out the door. From there, you make your way out of the hotel and onto the street. It’s chilly, but it’s better than being inside. In there, it’s so quiet. The sound of the gun cocking and firing bounces around inside of your skull.

The street you’re on is fairly empty, no noises to distract you. You wander down a few streets, not really paying attention to where you’re going, until you end up in front of a club. Music jumps outside through the open door. It pounds down the sidewalk until it reaches your ears. You walk closer, needing it to be louder.

You reach the edge of the club and slump against the bricks. Your eyes slide closed lids, colors dance and swirl in time with the music. The world around begins to fade and you are left with your own personal light show. It’s mesmerizing, but the feeling of being watched keeps you from mentally drifting. You feel all prickly and you have the urge to scratch your arms until the feeling goes away. Slowly, you open your eyes and survey the scene.

A little way down the line to enter the club, the man with the salt and pepper hair is staring at you with a smirk on his face. The guy standing next to him is talking animatedly. You are confused. Can this guy see the man too? You look at the man again. He’s still staring at you, completely ignoring the guy that’s talking to him. You stand completely still, frozen like a deer in the headlights, eye contact unbroken.

You finally look away when the guy standing next to him marches over to you in anger.

“Hey,” he yells, “why are you staring at my girlfriend?”

“I wasn’t…” But when you look over, the protest dies on your lips. Where the man with the salt and pepper hair was standing a moment ago is a pretty young woman, her face distorted with a look of disgust.

“Oh really?” The guy asks. “Because it looked like you were to me.”

He takes a step closer and you want to do nothing more than take a step back. You press yourself harder against the wall.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I thought-”

“You thought what? That she was single? That she wouldn’t mind being creeped on by a homeless guy?”

Homeless guy? You look down. In your haste to get out of the hotel, you forgot that you are still wearing your pajamas. Your blue flannel pants and grey cable knit sweater must scream homelessness to anyone that sees you. That, combined with your dark circles and messy hair, makes you understand the assumption that’s been made.

You look up at him to tell him that he’s mistaken, but he doesn’t want to hear it. He grabs you by the collar of your sweater and pulls back his fist, aiming to bring it down on your face. You squeeze your eyes shut and try to press yourself further into the bricks behind you. Instead of feeling any pain, you feel the guy release your sweater and you hear his shoes scuff against the sidewalk as he trudges back to his place in line. Hesitantly, you open your eyes. Coming towards you from a little farther down the sidewalk is Officer Sheffield.

“Dr. Reid,” he says, “what you doing here? And why are you dressed like that?”

“I- I just- I needed to get away.” You stutter.

“Well, you look completely exhausted. How ‘bout I give you a ride back to the hotel you’re staying at so you can get some rest?” He offers.

You look down at your shoes and manage a small nod.

He reaches out to place a hand on your shoulder, but you shy away from his touch.

“My car’s just around the corner.” He says.

You walk next to him on the sidewalk, shivering a little at the slight chill in the air. The two of you round the corner and turn onto a street that is completely vacant except for a single dark colored car. As you continue to make your way towards it, there’s a pinch on your arm. Your vision blurs and your legs turn to jelly. You try to speak, to ask what’s happening, but only garbled sounds escape your lips. You crash to the ground, the back of your head smacking into the sidewalk, your glasses thankfully remain unbroken, but pain flashes through your skull nonetheless.

Officer Sheffield stands over you and shakes his head. He doesn’t speak though. He bends over and grabs hold of you, hauling you off the ground and dragging you the rest of the way to his car where he manages to get you into the back seat. He climbs into the driver’s seat, starts the car, and slowly pulls away from the curb.

Whatever he gave you, combined with your new head injury, is making it difficult to focus. You see buildings flash by through the car window, but they blur together until they all look the same. You aren’t aware of how long you’re in the vehicle before it comes to a stop. Sheffield climbs out of the car and forcefully drags you from the backseat, across the lawn of on old two-story house, and over to the doors of a cellar. He pulls them open and drags you down the stairs, no doubt bruising your legs in the process. Then he climbs back up and pulls the cellar doors shut behind you.

At the foot of the stairs, Sheffield reaches over to a light switch and flicks it on. The room at the bottom of the stairs glows with dim light. In the center sits a rusty table with restraints attached to it. Underneath the table is a large drain in the floor. On the wall to the right is a desk with several files and some photographs. On the opposite wall, a tripod and video camera have been set up. In the back corner, half hidden by shadows, bottles of bleach and gallons of water are piled up.

Sheffield pulls you farther into the room and lifts you up onto the table. One by one he does up the restraints, one for each wrist and ankle. After you’re secured, he steps over to the video camera and presses record. Then he walks over to the desk, picks up one of the files, opens it, and starts flipping through the papers inside.

“Dr. Spencer Reid.” He pauses. “These past couple of days I’ve done some research into who you are. I was able to discover that your mother is a paranoid schizophrenic and is currently in a sanitarium in Vegas. Several things I learned from personal interaction, like the fact that you suffer from severe headaches, lack social graces, and are found to be socially awkward by almost everyone you come in contact with. The other day, I bumped into you as you were leaving the station and overheard a conversation where your supervisor and a fellow agent were expressing there concerns for you and you pleaded to not be taken off the case. Then yesterday, I was in the conference room where I witnessed you collapse. I have to say that I believe there to be something seriously wrong with you Dr. Reid.”

With the drug still having a firm hold over you, you say nothing.

Sheffield closes the file and places it back on the desk. “The other day, right before you collapsed, you looked out the window. You were staring across the street, not at the other agents parked outside. I have reason to believe that you have been hallucinating. Though I can't say what your particular delusion is, I’m almost certain you have one.”

He crosses back over to the camera and turns it off. He sighs. “I made a mistake last time. Randy… Randy was innocent. He wasn’t hurting anyone. But you... you are. You’re lying to your team. Whatever is wrong with you could put them in danger. You are sick and yet, you have the nerve to work with the government where you run the risk of infecting the lives of so many others and causing them pain. I can’t let that happen. I have to stop it. This time though, I can't take any chances. You’re going to have to say it on camera. I need you to admit it.”

He walks over to the bottom of the stairs. “I’ll come back in a couple of hours; the drug should be out of your system by then and we can get your confession.”

You watch him climb the stairs and exit the cellar, leaving you all alone. You think back on the profile, trying to see if your analysis of the Unsub was correct. It was profiled that he would be twenty to thirty years of age and that he would have suffered a loss of some kind, something that would make him feel powerless, and would incite a protective urge in him. He would be confident and tough, not overly so, but enough that you wouldn’t notice his struggles. Had Sheffield suffered a loss? Is that why he’s killing people? To reassure his power and control?

You close your eyes for a moment and take deep settling breaths. The drug is making it hard to think. You wish you knew what time it is. When you left the hotel earlier, you left in such a rush that you didn’t grab your watch or even bother to check the time. It could be a little before midnight, or it could be closer to dawn. With no windows, there’s no way to tell.

The wound on the back of your head rests against the table, causing it to sting and throb painfully. It’s making it hard to focus. You hope you don’t have a concussion. Medically, you know you aren’t supposed to sleep with one as it can possibly lead to a coma, but you’re so tired and you’re eyelids are so heavy. Slowly, they slide shut.

 

~*~

 

When you wake, you can't figure out what pulled you from unconsciousness. There’s no noise, nothing’s changed. Yet, something woke you. So what is it? You look to the stairs. Sheffield’s not back yet, so you’re alone. You don’t feel like you are though. That prickly feeling is back. Eyes roam over your body, poking and prodding and searching for something more. They want to peel your skin away, strip the flesh from your bones, and pick at your marrow.

You open your eyes and stare at the ceiling, being careful to not let your eyes stray to the rest of the space around you. The light on the ceiling is blurry from the leftover effects of sleep in your eyes. The bulb, though dim, burns your retinas nonetheless, and causes the ache in your head to grow stronger.

You lower your eyes from the ceiling and bring your gaze down to the stairs. Standing on the bottom step is the man with the salt and pepper hair. You feel like screaming. Why won’t he leave you alone? You look into his eyes and he stares back, face blank.

You frown. “What do you want from me?”

“Can’t you just leave me alone?”

“Get out of my head!” You scream.

Silence. He doesn’t even blink.

You pull at the restraints viciously, tears streaming out of the corners of your eyes. “Leave me alone!”

You continue thrashing around, desperately trying to free yourself even though you know it’s futile. You fight until your wrists and ankles are red and sore. You cry until the room blurs as salt water spills down your cheeks. When you finally stop, he’s gone. Exhaustion takes hold and you fall back into unconsciousness.

 

~*~

 

The sound of the cellar door creaking open signals Sheffield’s arrival and pulls you from sleep. A sliver of sunlight falls on the concrete steps. It’s morning. You don’t feel so helpless now that you have that bit of information. The outside world seems less distant now, more within your reach. You think of your team. Have they realized that you’re missing yet? Or are they still sound asleep in their beds?

When Sheffield comes down the stairs, you look away from him. A crack in the ceiling in the far corner of the room catches your attention. It reaches towards the center of the room like lightning stretches across the sky. You feel like you’re in the eye of a storm, waiting for the calm to pass and the chaos to wreak havoc.

Sheffield comes to a stop next to the table and leans over you, blocking your view of the ceiling.

“Are you ready to confess? Are you ready to admit that you are sick?” He asks.

“I’m not sick.” You say.

He sneers. “That’s a lie and we both know it. You are altogether a disease and the world will be a better place once I eradicate you.”

“That’s not true.” You argue.

“Oh? Your team will be better off without you. You hold them back. You’re the screw up, the kid who only got on the team because he’s got book smarts. Well let me tell you something, they’re going to be better off without you messing everything up.”

You shake your head. “That’s a lie. They’re my friends, my family. They’re out looking for me right now, hunting you down. You’re not going to get away with this.”

He laughs. “Now that you aren’t holding them back, they probably are going to catch me, but it’s not going to matter. By the time they do, you’re already going to be dead.”

He sounds so different when he’s not on camera. When he was recording, he was more clinical and professional sounding. Now he sounds angrier and more passionate about his cause. He sounds like he’s enjoying himself more.

Sheffield turns towards the desk, opens the top drawer, and pulls out a belt.

“What are you doing?” You ask, voice wavering a bit.

He sighs. “Well, you obviously aren’t going to confess on your own. I figured I give you a little push.”

“B-But none of the other victims had any kind of-”

“You’re not like the other victims. I didn’t ask for them to confess before I killed them. After Randy though, I’m going to need you to confess.”

He takes a step closer and your breath hitches. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I do.” He takes another step closer.

“Please don’t.” You beg. “I’m not sick and I’m not lying. Y-you have to believe me.”

“I’m afraid I just can't do that.” He comes to the edge of the table, leans over, and wraps the belt around your neck.

Tears leak out of the corners of your eyes. “Please…” But he ignores you.

He tightens the belt around your throat. Your hands reach for the belt, but they’re stopped by the restraints. Your lungs scream for oxygen. Black spots dance across your vision. You continue to struggle, but your attempts keep getting weaker and weaker. Suddenly, Sheffield lets go. Air rushes into your lungs. A violent coughing fit wracks your body. Your chest heaves.

He pulls tight again. Once more, your body tries to fight off the assault. However, this time, you maintain eye contact. His face radiates disgust. If he wasn’t strangling you, his glare alone would be enough to take away your ability to breathe. When he lets go, you squeeze your eyes shut and focus all of your energy on taking in one breath after another. Pain radiates from the back of your head. You hear him moving about the room for a moment before heading up the stairs.

You don’t open your eyes until you’re sure he’s gone. Then, you stare at the ceiling and let tears leak out of the corners of your eyes. Where’s your team? Your family? Are they out looking for you right now? Do they have any idea that Sheffield’s the Unsub?

The feeling comes back, the one that tells you you’re being watched. The man sits, perched on the edge of the desk. His eyes creep up the side of your neck and they feel like the long legs of a spider. You glare at him.

“You’re not real.” Your voice is rough from the attempted strangulation, but you keep going. “I wish I could just force you away with logic, but we both know that’s not going to happen. It’s not enough for me to know you’re not real.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“I’m crazy aren’t I? I don’t want to end up like my mother, locked away in an institution. Then again, maybe I’m not crazy. I’ve avoided going to a hospital and I haven’t gotten the opinion of any medical doctors, so this might just be a mistake. Maybe I’m seeing things as a result of a lack of sleep. That’s possible, right?”

Again, nothing.

“Why don’t you speak to me? I know enough about delusions and hallucinations to know that it’s normal for them to speak, so why don’t you?”

Slowly, he rises from his place on the edge of the desk and comes to stand next to the table. He leans over and places his lips next to your ear. You freeze and swear that in that moment, even your heart stills in fear that if it beats, it will shatter the moment. He exhales, enough air that it makes a sound, and stands up straight again. Your heart resumes its beating. The man retreats to the part of the room behind you and he’s out of your sight.

The cellar door is pulled open again and Sheffield enters. He stalks down the stairs with a smirk on his face and immediately walks over to the video camera. He points at the little red light. “Do you know what that means?”

You swallow hard. You hadn’t looked at the camera.

“That’s right. This little red light means it’s recording. I hooked up a link from the camera to my computer in the house. I was watching your little psycho-babble and it’s all on tape, too. That’s all the proof I need.” He turns off the camera, walks around the table you’re strapped to, and stops when he reaches the desk. He slides open the top drawer and pulls out a knife. “Did you know that they used to bleed people in an attempt to cure them from certain illnesses? You did, didn’t you? You know an awful lot of things.” He smiles and it’s sickening. “Did you know that I’m not interested in curing you?” He comes up to the edge of the table.

“You don’t have to do this.” You plead. “If you’re trying to clean up the streets, there are other ways to do it.”

“I’m not stupid. I knew when I started killing that I wouldn’t be able to stop, not because of some psychological urge, but because it would be too difficult to do so without getting caught. No, I’m in this for the long haul. I’m in this ‘til I’m caught.”

The doors to the cellar are flung open and beams of light shine down the stairs and into the room. Shouts ring out, “Austin Sheffield, FBI!”

Sheffield grabs your forearm right below the elbow and holds the knife over your wrist, ready to spill your blood. Morgan, Prentiss, Hotch, and Rossi slowly make their way down the stairs, guns trained on Sheffield. All of the police officers wait outside.

Sheffield grips your arm tighter. “Don’t come any closer or I kill him.”

They stop.

Rossi raises his hands in surrender and holsters his weapon. “Austin, you don’t have to do this. Reid isn’t sick. He’s not a burden on any of us.”

“You’re wrong. He is crazy and I have proof.” Sheffield nods towards the video camera.

“We don’t believe you.” Rossi says.

“Just look at the tape and you’ll see. I have proof.”

“Proof? You weren’t interested in having proof with any of your other victims. Is it because of Randy? Because you killed him and he wasn’t burdening anyone? Let me tell you, Randy wasn’t the first innocent you killed.”

Sheffield sneers. “You’re trying to tell me that Jeff Fowler didn’t beat his wife? Everyone in town knew he did. That homeless man sat on that corner like discarded trash and that girl worked the streets, no doubt spreading disease.”

Hotch jumps in. “It’s not your place to judge. You don’t get to decided who lives and who dies.”

“I already did.” Sheffield says.

“We know why you killed those people. We know what happened to Avery and we know that after that, Christine left you.” Hotch says.

His grip on you arm weakens a bit. “It wasn’t my fault, but Christine didn’t believe me. She said I failed as a father. I just wanted to show everyone that I could still protect people, protect this town. I can still do that. I have proof that Dr. Reid isn’t well. By killing him, I’ll be protecting so many people.”

Morgan frowns. “Reid is our friend; you won’t be doing anyone any favors if you kill him.”

Sheffield shakes his head. “You don’t understand. I have proof, just look at the tape and you’ll see.”

Morgan aims his gun at the camera and fires.

“No!” Sheffield yells.

“Your proof is gone. If you kill him now, everyone will think you’ve killed another innocent person.” Morgan says.

Sheffield pauses and says, so quietly you’re not sure anyone else can hear him, “I have to protect this town.” He draws the blade across your wrist. Someone on the other side of the room fires two shots into Sheffield’s chest and he goes down, but you can't tell who shot him. Your wrist feels like it’s on fire and everything feels really heavy. Someone puts pressure on your wrist and it hurts and you try to pull away but you can't.

You look up and Hotch’s blurry face is in front of yours. “Spencer th… too… blood… still.”

Nothing he says is making any sense. Someone’s undoing the restraints and you’re lifted off the table and placed on what feels like another table. You’re strapped back down and you try to fight but you’re so tired and it’s hard to tell exactly where the control you have over your body starts and stops. You feel weightless and distant before the sun is glaring in your eyes. You’re lifted up a bit higher and the yellow light goes away, only to be replaced by white light. A face blocks your view of the bulbs. It’s Emily. She pushes your hair out of your face and says something but with all the other noise surrounding you, her words are lost. Your eyes slide shut and, reassured by Emily’s safe presence, you left yourself fall into nothingness.


	6. "Fine"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can feel everyone’s eyes on you, boring holes into the back of your head. You pretend they aren’t there.

Your limbs are heavy and your eyelids are too. They flutter several times before finally finding the strength to open. You’re in a bright white room that smells so chemically clean it’s giving you a headache. The sheets are scratchy and you’re cold. Everything’s blurry. Where are your glasses? You turn your head to look at the small table next to the bed and find your glasses resting on the surface next to a tall glass of water. You stretch your hand out to reach your glasses, but you bump the glass and it falls to the floor, shattering.

Someone startles awake. It’s Emily; she’s sitting in a chair against the wall. Her eyes fly open and land on you, then they land on the broken glass by the bed. She sighs, not out of annoyance, but relief. “You’re awake.” She says.

You try to speak, but your throat is so dry you end up coughing. Emily picks up her water bottle, screws off the cap, and helps you take a drink.

“Thanks.” You say.

She smiles. “No problem. How are you feeling?”

“Tired.” You pause. “Everything’s fuzzy; I can't remember how I got here.”

Emily hands you your glasses and lets you put them on before she leans forward in her chair and grabs your hand. “We found you in the cellar of what used to be Sheffield’s parents’ house. He was holding a knife to your wrist. Rossi tried to talk him down but he just kept going on about having proof.”

Your eyes go wide. Did they find proof that you’ve been hallucinating? Emily doesn’t notice your panic and continues on.

“Morgan shot the camera he had set up, thinking that if he didn’t have his proof, he wouldn’t kill you, but he tried anyway.” She fingers the thick bandages wrapped around your left wrist. “He cut you pretty deep and severed your artery. I was so scared that he’d killed you, I emptied two rounds into his chest.” Her eyes water and she laughs weakly, trying to hide how scared she was. “He’s dead, but you’re not and that’s what matters.”

“I’m sorry you had to kill someone.”

She looks up at you like she’d forgotten you were there. “I’m not. I did it to protect you, to protect this team. It almost didn’t even matter.”

You’re confused. “What do you mean?”

“If we hadn’t had an ambulance waiting outside, you wouldn’t have made it. You lost a lot of blood and flatlined in the ambulance twice.”

You died? Twice? That’s not something you want to think about right now. You change the subject. “How did you know Sheffield was the Unsub?”

“I woke up in the middle of the night and you were gone. The whole team looked for you until the sun rose, but then we had to focus on the case. The first thing we noticed was that Sheffield hadn’t shown up. Morgan was pretty unsettled about it. He said that right before you passed out the other day, you guys were talking about the case and Sheffield was there. He said Sheffield kept talking about how the Unsub must be pretty skilled if he’d evaded us for so long. Then we realized that he saw you pass out the other day. We knew he’d be looking for a victim and that you would be a pretty convenient target.”

“Why was he doing it? Killing all those people?” You ask.

“He had a daughter, Avery. He was supposed to be watching her one day, but he wasn’t paying attention. She was trying to chase a butterfly and ran out in front of a car. She didn’t make it. His wife, Christine, blamed him and said that he’d failed as a father. She divorced him.” Emily sighs. “The anniversary of his daughter’s death was a week before the first murder. He was trying to prove that he could still protect people, even though he couldn’t protect his daughter.”

She intertwines your fingers with hers. “You’re okay now, so none of that matters anymore.”You want to argue and say that it does because everyone on the team is going to have to do paperwork for the case, but you let the matter settle.  “Where is everyone?” You ask, noticing for the first time that the rest of the team is absent.

“They went to get coffee from the coffee shop a couple of blocks over. We got tired of the sludge the hospital cafeteria provides. They should be back soon.”

There’s a light knock on the door before it’s opened. A nurse with a soft, kind face enters. “Hello Spencer. It’s nice to see you awake. How are you feeling?”

You shrug. “Fine. Kind of… heavy?”

She picks up a chart hanging from the end of your bed and scribbles something down. “That’s perfectly normal. You had a slight concussion when you came in. Are you experiencing any headaches? Any sensitivity to light or loud noises?”

You shake your head.

“All right then.” The nurse says, smiling brightly. “We’re going to prescribe you some medicine to fight infection, but after that you’re free to go and cleared for flight. You’ll need to keep your stitches in for seven days. Keep them covered and avoid getting them wet. You think you can handle that?”

You nod.

“Alright then, I’ll be back soon with your medication and discharge papers.” She walks out of the room, her white shoes making no sound on the pristine white floor.

Emily walks over to the bathroom connected to your room and comes back with a handful of paper towels. “I’m surprised the nurse didn’t notice the glass, but I should probably clean it up before someone gets hurt.” She scoops the glass shards into the paper towels and drops them into the trash. Then she sits back down in the chair by your bed.

When you first woke up, the details of what had happened were fuzzy, lost or quite possibly trapped in the corners of your mind. Now they’re back with startling clarity. You remember the eyes of the man with salt and pepper hair crawling up the side of your neck like a spider. It makes you shiver.

“Are you cold?” Emily asks. “We brought your go bag so you can change.”

“I’d like that.” You say. “But could I get something to eat first?”

“Of course. I can run down to the cafeteria really quick and be back in less than ten.” She leaves, her shoes click-clacking on the floor as she walks.

So you wait, patiently, staring at the ceiling and counting the tiles. When you hear the door open, it’s only been three minutes and twelve seconds. There’s no way Emily could be back by now. You turn your head to face the door and see the rest of your team filing in, each of them carrying disposable coffee cups.

“You’re awake.” Hotch says. “Have you spoken to your doctor yet?”

“A nurse came in. She said she be back soon with my discharge papers.”

“Are you cleared to fly?” He asks.

You nod.

“Good. Once we’re back in Quantico, you’re taking a week off.”

“What? I don’t want to take a week off!” You protest.

“Reid,” Hotch says, his voice compassionate instead of stern and commanding, “you’ve been spreading yourself really thin lately and you were just seriously injured on a case. A week off could do you some good. Rest, recuperate, and come back to work when you’re feeling better.”

“I already feel better. I don’t want to take time off.” You realize that you sound like a petulant child, but you can't bring yourself to care.

Rossi steps in. “Kid, do it for us. It’ll give us some piece of mind.”

You sigh. “Fine, but take note that I do so under extreme protest.”

“Note taken.” Rossi says.

Morgan plops down in the chair that Prentiss was occupying and leans back. “You got any jello? I’d kill for some jello.”

“Emily went down to the cafeteria to get me some food. She might bring me back some, but if she does, I’m going to be the one that eats it.” You pause for a moment. “Unless… I can get some coffee?”

Morgan frowns. “Kid, you don’t need coffee right now. You’re supposed to be drinking water.”

“I need coffee Morgan. And if you want any jello, you’re going to have to get me some.”

“Well then, it looks like I’m not getting any jello.”

You cross your arms and frown at him, but he doesn’t budge. Eventually, you sigh in defeat.

Morgan’s phone rings and he looks at the caller id before answering. “Hey, Baby Girl.”

From where you sit, there’s a lot of load garbled speech making its way out of the speakers. Morgan holds the phone a couple of inches away from his head to spare his eardrums. After a moment, he passes the phone to you. Hesitantly, you lift it to your ear.

“Hello?”

“187, you scared me half to death! First you’re just missing and then I get a phone call that says you’ve been kidnapped? As if that wasn’t enough, there’s another one that informed me you were in the hospital!”

“It’s alright Garcia, I’m fine. I’m even cleared to fly back home.” You say, trying to offer some reassurance.

“If you don’t come see me as soon as you land, I’ll hunt you down and smother you with affection and baked goods. Don’t think I won’t.” She threatens.

You smile sheepishly. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” The door is opened and Emily walks in carrying a tray of food for you. Your stomach grumbles in anticipation. “I’ll see you in a few hours Garcia.”

“Au revoir, mon cher.” With a defined _click_ , the line goes dead.

Emily passes the tray to you and you set it on your lap. It’s got less food than you were hoping to receive, but several minutes later you understand why. You only manage to eat half of the food on the tray before your stomach begins to protest how full it’s getting. You don’t even manage to eat your jello, something Derek is incredibly happy about.

The team vacates the room long enough for you to change. You consider putting on some dress pants and shirt, but when you think about having to do up all those buttons, you change your mind. Instead, you slip on a pair of sweatpants, a t-shirt, and a heavy cardigan. The cardigan was something Garcia bought you. It’s maroon and incredibly soft. She got it for you last winter when, even in the office, you couldn’t seem to stop shivering.

By the time you’re done changing, you’ve grown incredibly tired. It doesn’t matter though. You’ll be out of the hospital soon, you can sleep then. You slump down on the edge of the bed and call out for your team to reenter the room. They come in, Hotch armed with paperwork and Morgan armed with a wheelchair.

Hotch passes you the papers and a pen. “Once you sign these discharge forms, you’re free to go.”

You waste no time scratching your signature wherever it’s wanted.

Morgan comes closer to the bed, bringing the wheelchair with him. “Now Pretty Boy, I know you’re gonna want to fight me on this, but they won’t let you walk out of here unless you’re in one of these.”

“I’m not fighting.” You say, transferring yourself to the wheelchair. “I don’t think I have the energy to fight. I do, however, have the energy to point out that if I’m leaving the hospital in a wheelchair, then I’m not technically ‘walking out of here’ like you said.”

Morgan laughs and ruffles your hair. “Nothing gets past you, does it?”

He’s not expecting an answer, so you just smile and let yourself be wheeled out of the room. You do look back over your shoulder to make sure someone grabbed your go bag. Emily has it, and she smiles reassuringly when she notices you looking for it.

 

~*~

 

“Are you alright Reid?” Rossi asks.

You shift your gaze from the window to his face. To anyone other than a profiler, he’d look normal, but you can see the underlying worry in his gaze.

“I’m fine.” You say. “Just glad to have this case behind us.”

He doesn’t seem satisfied with that answer, but he let’s it slide. You turn and look back out the window.

 

~*~

 

When the SUV arrives at the jet, you refuse everyone’s assistance. It’s not that far of a walk and you sat for the entire ride here, so your strength is up. Slowly you get out of the vehicle and make your way over to the jet. You can feel everyone’s eyes on you, boring holes into the back of your head. You pretend they aren’t there. When you make it to the stairs, you’re still fine, but after the first few, the gravitational pull on your legs seems to increase with every step.

About halfway up, you trip and fall. You close your eyes and expect pain, but instead there’s a heavy pull at your waist. Hotch’s arm is wrapped around your waist, holding you up. He helps you regain your footing and, unlike Rossi, doesn’t bother hiding the worry in his gaze. It’s the father in him coming out.

“Are you alright?” He asks.

You nod. Your face would probably be flushed in embarrassment if it weren’t pale from exhaustion. When Hotch reaches out and grabs your arm to support you as you continue climbing, you don’t shrug him off. Instead, you accept his assistance. He’s already demanded you take a week of leave; it can’t hurt anymore to show some weakness.

Once inside, you stumble over to the couch and allow your body to sink into the cushions. It’s softer than the hospital bed and definitely softer than the rusty table in the cellar. You dispel those thoughts and are asleep before the jet leaves the ground.

 

~*~

_It’s dark and the antiseptic smell of bleach makes your nose wrinkle in disgust. There’s an object in your hand. It bites at your skin with a cold lifelessness that makes you want to drop whatever it is, but the muscles in your hand won’t listen to the signals your brain is sending out._

_It’s a knife, a sharp edge of gleaming surgical steel ready to wound, to kill. Again, you try to release it and still your body refuses. You move the knife and bring it over to your wrist. It lies there, facing upwards, awaiting the pierce of the blade. The bare expanse of pale skin is translucent, not bothering to hide the deep blue veins that lie just below the surface._

_Your heart is hammering away inside your chest, pumping blood faster and faster, beating your pulse into a crescendo. You apply pressure and feel it break your skin. A hiss escapes your lips and you push harder, watching crimson rush forth and stain your white skin. The knife slips from your grasp and clatters to the floor. You regain control of your body and press your hand to the wound, trying to stop the bleeding. It’s no use. Your blood keeps flowing and bubbling forth. You’re hands are wet and slick with it and your muscles don’t have the strength to try and stop it from flowing. You let your hand fall back to your side, a silent surrender, and watch as your blood drips onto the concrete floor like rain; a thick, warm, scarlet rain._

 

~*~

 

Your eyes flutter open and you’re overwhelmed with confusion. Your head is in Emily’s lap and she’s running her fingers through your hair in a soothing manner. Hotch is holding your right hand loosely and your left wrist is throbbing. You can feel tears cooling on your cheeks. Everyone looks worried, but you don’t know why.

When Morgan notices your eyes are open, he sighs in relief. “Thank God you’re awake kid.”

“What happened?” You ask.

“You were dreaming.” Rossi offers. He is the most composed out of everyone on the plane. “We couldn’t wake you up and you were hurting yourself.”

“Hurting myself?”

He nods. “You hand your hand wrapped around your injured wrist and you kept holding tighter and tighter. Hotch tried to pull your hand away, but you wouldn’t let go. Do you remember what you were dreaming about?”

You think back. Cold steel, the sharp bite of the blade, scarlet rain… “I don’t remember.” You lie.

Hotch lets go of your hand and reaches over for your bandages. You pull away from him weakly. “What are you doing?”

“I need to check your stitches and make sure you didn’t mess them up. Is that okay?”

You nod and slowly, he unravels the crisp white bandages and exposes your cut to everyone on the plane. You look at it for a moment before quickly looking away. Your stomach rolls.

“Your stitches are fine,” Hotch says, “but you’re definitely going to have bruises.”

He wraps the injury back up, but your mind is focusing on getting your stomach to settle. Deep breath in, long exhale out. Repeat. It catches Emily’s attention.

“Spencer, what’s wrong?”

“I think I’m going to be sick.” You say. It’s barely more than a whisper, but she hears you.

She helps you up off the couch and into the bathroom where you fall to your knees and heave into the toilet. What little food you managed to eat at breakfast all comes back up. When your stomach stops rebelling, you lean your head against the seat and let your eyes slide shut.

“Oh no you don’t.” Emily says. “You are not falling asleep on the bathroom floor. Come on, we’re going back to the couch.”

You give in and let her help you back to the couch. You don’t lie down though. You sit, curling your feet up under you.

“You don’t want to sleep?” Emily asks.

You shake your head.

“Are you sure? You look pretty exhausted.”

“I’ve had enough sleep.” You say.

She looks like she wants to argue, but she doesn’t say anything else.

The rest of the plane ride is rather uneventful. Hotch does paperwork. Rossi is reading. Morgan and Prentiss play cards. Every now and then someone looks at you with worry out of the corner of their eyes, but you ignore them. Actually, you ignore everything that’s happening around you.

You don’t let your mind wander, but instead focus it on math. You run equations in your head until you forget about everything that just happened. It’s mind numbing and therapeutic. The numbers flow over your mind like cleansing water, pure and wonderful. It’s refreshing, like I drink of ice water on a hot summer day. Except you don’t want water, you want coffee. But that’s because you’re tired, and that’s because of the case and all the poor sleep you’ve gotten recently.

Fingers snap in front of your face, breaking you away from your train of thought before you make it too far. It’s Morgan. You smile up at him before he has the chance to ask if you’re alright.

“Time to go, Pretty Boy.” He says. It isn’t until then that you even realize the plane has landed. “We’re all heading to the office to get a jumpstart on this paperwork. Do you want to ride with or do you want us to take you home?”

“I’ll go with you guys.” You offer while getting to your feet.

“You sure? You look pretty exhausted.”

“I’m sure. Besides, I promised Garcia that I’d come see her as soon as we landed.”

“She’ll understand if you need to get some rest.” He says, his face still questioning.

“I can rest later. Right now, we’re going to the office.” You march past him, not checking to see if he’s following, and exit the plane. The asphalt is wet and your converse make a light slapping sound as you walk across it to get to one of the SUVs. The air smells like rain and you inhale deeply before climbing into the backseat. Prentiss is sitting up front. Rossi and Hotch already left for the office in the other vehicle.

Morgan climbs into the driver’s seat a moment later, starts the car, and drives off. It isn’t until your standing outside Quantico that you realize you’re wearing sweatpants instead of your usual attire. You fiddle with the sleeve of your cardigan in nervousness. Morgan comes up and puts a reassuring hand on your shoulder.

“You’re off the clock kid, so it doesn’t matter what you’re wearing.” He says.

Emily nods in agreement. “He’s right. You’re just here to see Garcia. Don’t worry.”

They’re right. They are absolutely right. You take a deep breath and enter the building side by side with them. You get a couple of odd stares in the elevator, but you manage to ignore them.

When the doors open, you’re surprised to see the Garcia isn’t standing there awaiting your arrival. Not that you want her to, it’s just what you were expecting based on past behavior. You make it three feet away from the door to the lair when it flies open and you’re engulfed in fluorescent orange and deep violet.

“Junior G-man!”

You wrap your arms around her in return. “How did you know I was here?”

“Well, I’d love to say that I’ve developed amazing mind powers, but alas, I saw you on the security cameras. I just so glad you’re okay!” She pulls back suddenly and holds you at arm’s length, looking you up and down. “You are okay, right?”

“Like I told you earlier, I’m fine.”

“You can’t lie to me.”

“What makes you think I’m lying?” You ask.

“I may have accessed you’re medical records…” She at least looks sheepish when she says it.

You sigh. “It’s nothing really, just a scratch.”

“Just a scratch?” She sounds outraged. “Reid, he severed your artery! That’s not nothing. You could have died.” Her eyes water at the thought.

“Well, I didn’t. Clearly, I’m still here and I’d appreciate it if I could just put this case behind me.”

She lets the issue rest and pushes you towards one of the chairs in the room. You sit and watch as she forces cute cat videos on you in an attempt to make you feel better. You’re really just too tired and soon you’re falling asleep sitting up.

When Emily comes knocking, you’re eyes flutter open.

She laughs. “Come on Reid, I’m taking you home.”

You let her drag you to your feet and take you to her car. You doze on the way to your apartment, but she rouses you when you arrive. Then she gets you inside. There, you stumble down the hall to your room, barely managing to take your shoes off before your head is hitting the pillow and you’re fast asleep.


End file.
